Spider Lily
by Tiny Octopus
Summary: One of many lost to the Titans finds that dying is not the way he thought it would be.


**Rated M for not-quite-graphic depiction of death by Titan (not vore, I swear.)**

**The protagonist of this story is intended to be one of the many nameless casualties regularly getting devoured by Titans, but because he's neither named nor described, you could probably imagine whoever you want.**

* * *

Dying takes longer than he thought it would.

From the outside, it doesn't look like it takes long, ten seconds at the most.

One: a gear malfunction, or simple human error, a slip-up.

Two: the mistake registers in the doomed soldier's mind, eyes widening as they lose momentum.

Three: the feeling of free-fall (it doesn't last as long as you might think).

Four: an uncontrolled landing. Head throbbing, body sore; something's probably broken, organs jarred against the cavities they're held in at the abrupt stop.

Five: a Titan notices downed prey, and moves in for the kill. This is the second-longest part, especially if the prey sees the predator approaching and struggles,

Six: tries to force their aching body to stand up or roll to the side or

Seven: _just move, just move, fucking do something, don't just sit there!_

Eight: but the Titan's too close for anything they do to matter. The younger ones freeze up as they realize that they're staring death in the face. The veterans just close their eyes,

Nine: don't struggle when they're picked up like dolls,

Ten: and then the Titan's jaw clamps shut and it's over.

That's it, that's all, just ten seconds. It's the kind of thing they used to tell each other in the barracks at night before they went to sleep because it really helped. He would chant it like a mantra in his head when he thought about his wife and the baby they never had, a funeral service with no body in the casket. _Just ten seconds._

Nobody tells them that it's the longest ten seconds of their lives, nor is it really only ten seconds.

Not that he's lucid enough to start counting after the back of his head smacks into the tiles of someone's roof. His vision blurs and he feels a little like vomiting but he really tries not to because he doesn't think he can get off of his back. His ears are still ringing, so he doesn't hear the Titan coming. One second, he sees the sky and wishes he'd been born a bird, and the next, a hand closes around him, and he realizes what's happening and he screams a little even though he can't quite move.

It drops him down its throat, and he feels the vibration around him when its teeth snap shut, and he can hardly see but he keeps falling down a slope slick with warm, acidic-smelling fluid. The passage gets tight in some places, tight enough to break his bones as he slides through, and it wasn't supposed to be like this, he thinks, he's supposed to be dead already. It's supposed to be over when it closes its mouth, it's supposed to be done. He's being crushed and melted and suffocated all at the same time, and he wishes, he wishes it were only ten seconds.

He wonders if she died like this, too. He doesn't want to think about it.

Dying takes longer than ten seconds, he's pretty sure, even if he doesn't count.

The last second is in the blink of an eye; eyes open, in the belly of a Titan. Eyes closed. Eyes open, sprawled in the back of a small boat.

He's still wearing his uniform. Slowly, he props himself up on his elbows. It's dark—not like night, but like a cloudy, foggy afternoon, and he can't see far past the boat, can't see his destination ahead or his departure point behind him. It's not cold or hot, warm or cold; it just is.

On the other end of the boat sits a woman, hair a dazzling red, dressed in strange clothes and smiling at him. "Better?" she asks. He nods. "It's nice how quick it is, isn't it?"

"Quick?" he chokes, "No, that was…that was anything but quick."

She sighs. "I meant death, not dying."

"What the difference?"

"Dying can take a long time," the woman says, waving a hand in the air passively, and the fog stirs around her, "Many minutes. Many hours. Many years. But death is quick—you're there, then," she snaps her fingers, "you're here."

"Where is here?" he asks, pulling himself to his knees to sit up. He can't see far enough to tell.

"You don't recognize it?" she scoffs, "Let me guess, you didn't bring any fare, either?" but his blank stare causes her smile to lessen, becoming almost sad. "Ah," she says, "I suppose everyone who used to tell the stories is dead now." She laughs softly. "Don't worry, I'll ferry you for free. You've earned it."

"I don't understand."

"It's alright," she says soothingly, and for some reason, he believes her. She stands, stretching her arms over her head, takes an oar, and begins to steer slowly. "I suppose I should get you there."

"Where are we going?" He thinks he's beginning to understand. The woman gazes off into the distance, seeing something he can't yet.

"You'll see," she says, "You'll see."

He leans back again, letting his hand rest in the waters and stirring ripples on the surface.

"It was a good life," she says.

"It was," he agrees.

"You were brave. You didn't run away."

"I hope it meant something."

"Every death means something," she says, "Every single one."

Through the fog, he glimpses a mountain of red flowers he has never seen before. On the soft wind that blows over the water, he hears the voice of the woman he loves calling him home.


End file.
